Love and Other Senses
by nattylovesjordy
Summary: She investigates, acquires proof. He just knows and lets everything fall into place from there. A series of one-shots based on various "senses." B&B.
1. Touch

_**Author's Note: **I bet you all thought the next time you saw me I would be donning verbs or nouns. So did I. How wrong we were. A few years ago in a writing class I took, the teacher gave us a list of "senses." Some were made up, and others are legitimate senses like touch, sight, etc. Having writers block, I thought this might be a good exercise to get the juices flowing, and it turned into a series. Some will be short, some longer, but they will always be based off of a "sense." There will be a minimum of 17, but I've thought of two additional ones thus far. __I hope to post every Tuesday and Thursday, maybe Tuesday and Friday, so be on the lookout. _

_Also, I **AM** still working on the next part of speech series, I just need some time to pre-write those. I'm sure getting my S6 DVDs today will help get some written. :)_

**_Setting:_**_ No setting. It can happen any time. And yes, clearly I love them in bed._

**_Warning:_**_ This is definitely bordering on the "upper level" of T. Don't worry, I'll never go past this. _

__I make the rules, so if I want to break one, then I can. And guess what? I did. So. There. __

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sense of Touch<br>**__Create a sense of what a character is feeling. No use of the verb "touch" or "feel"—not only a physical feeling, but an emotional one as well._

* * *

><p>Her fingers ran along his bare back, lightly brushing the skin under his shoulder blades. His skin prickled with goose bumps and his body shivered with delight. He could sense the ridges of each finger as they traveled to and from his neck. Her fingernails tickled him whenever they accidentally brushed across his soft, sensitive skin.<p>

Slowly, with every stroke of her fingers along his back, he woke up a little more. The sun continued to grow brighter, burning his eyes with more intensity with every gradual increase in light. A breeze from the cracked-open window lightly brushed his face every time the wind's direction changed. Nature's alarm, added with the delicate backrub she surprised him with, woke him up fully.

Observing the slight difference in his pattern of breathing from underneath her palms, her cheeks tightened in a grin. Her silky legs pulled through the soft sheets. Propping herself up on her stomach beside him, she arched her back to look at him.

Even though he was wide-awake and fully aware of every move or slight shift of her body, he remained completely still. He enjoyed her hand's soothing renditions.

Without any warning, her hands halted. During the short pause, he considered whether to flip onto his back or remain still; she considered her next move. Before he was able to slide across the sheets, her warm, slightly chapped lips brushed across his spine. Locks of hair fell on his back and every time her lips found a new spot, her hair swept along like a painter's brush along his spine.

As she made her way back up below his earlobe he turned over and snaked an arm around her waist. His body easily bore her weight, lifting her light torso on top of his. The soft cotton of her shirt rubbed against his chest, bumps crawling across his skin once more.

With both palms resting on her hipbones, he pulled her body up his to bring their faces to the same height, her body heat along his chest reminding him of pulling the covers up to his chin. His stubble itched her cheek as his face rubbed against hers. He brought a hand up to her jaw and pushed the hair out of her face, his palm running across her flushed cheeks.

Finally, her lips were aligned with his and she was right where he wanted her to be. The muscles in his neck stretched so he could experience his favorite sensation: the feeling of her lips on his.


	2. History

_**Author's Note:** This one's a short one! Because Emily Deschanel's birthday was Tuesday, I decided that I would post a "Brennan-heavy" chapter. ALSO, in an unrelated note... It's MY birthday today, and if that means I can do what I want to because I'm the Queen of the day, then I say you should send me reviews on this chapter as my birthday present! _

_(JK. You don't have to. It _is_ my birthday, but you don't have to do anything!) _

**_Setting:_**_ First part: see below. Second part: any time. _

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><p><strong>Sense of History<br>**_An exploration of an event or events that occurred in the past, usually before the writer—you—were born, but somehow involve you.  
><em>(For all intent and purposes, instead of "before the writer" was born, I'm choosing "before the premise of the show," aka anything before the Pilot100__th__ episode.)_ _

* * *

><p>She walked silently through the hall, unnoticed, but noticed as a pariah. Few stares floated her way and she wrapped her baggy sweatshirt tighter around her abdomen, hiding in the excess of the fabric. The wind blew on her exposed left knee from the rip in her jeans and she shivered, but not because of the weather.<p>

Her memories haunted her with the simple gust of wind. Images of her front door opening and the cold air of the storm outside making its way in alongside her brother, instead of her dad, who was carrying logs for a fire on Christmas morning. Pictures of watching her brother drive away days later, efficiently abandoning her, as the leaves of the trees brushed together.

Most recently, the memory of her foster father barging into the bathroom as she stepped out of the shower the night before filled her mind, the colder air from outside the bathroom rushing in. The words he said, the loudness of his voice—they all terrify and hurt her like being stabbed in the gut.

She once more tightened the sweatshirt around her torso in hopes of pulling it just tight enough for her to stop breathing, to make everything go away.

She has long been reserved, a result of her tainted childhood, but even more so now after her foster father's berating. She's broken, stuck in a perpetual storm, secretly looking for a Sun.

* * *

><p>She was hopeless as a teenager. She knew she was smart, knew she had a bright career in front of her, but she thought she would go through the rest of her life alone. As a high school student, as a lost young girl, she never thought she would find her way out from under the oppression of the gray clouds that seemed to follow her around.<p>

She was understood by few and eventually learned to remain unfazed, or at least appear unperturbed, by what people said. She begun to ignore the snickers, to ignore the stares. She convinced herself that it didn't mean anything as her way of coping.

Then she met him, she finally met someone who made her world just a tiny bit brighter. After such a long time on her own she finally met someone who meant something to her. He changed her life and made her a better person.

Walking through the bullpen to his office, she adjusted her shirt. A few people waved or nodded their heads at her. Others didn't even look up; she was such a common fixture there that her presence was nothing out of the ordinary.

There was no special occasion, no reason to be particularly excited, but she found herself anxious to see him. After licking her lips once, she pushed through his door. He looked up from his desk and smiled, and she met his grin.

He was the Sun that she struggled to find for so long.


	3. Problem and Solution

_**Author's Note:** Here I was, driving in my car, singing at the top of my lungs, and BAM. IDEA STRIKES. I actually start laughing because the idea, if it were to be seen on the show, would be quite something to see. I can't write at their caliber, especially when it comes to humor, but I liked the idea too much to not try!_

**_Setting: _**_About what... 8-9 months after the S6 finale? Ignore any spoilers you may know because I don't read them all and don't know if this topic has been discussed. _

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of ProblemSolution  
><strong>_Present a problem with a solution, or an implied solution._

* * *

><p>She was <em>supposed<em> to be at home. She was _supposed_ to be resting. She was _not_ supposed to be here, in the diner, consulting on a case. But no, she couldn't help herself, and her pregnancy hormone-induced threats won him over once more.

In another week, less than seven days, he would be there with her for the two weeks before her due date and many weeks after. In less than seven days neither of them would be working and he would have a better chance at keeping her away from work. Just another measly seven days.

Around noon, fifteen minutes before he was meeting Sweets for a quick lunch to discuss their current case, she called and talked about how badly she was craving salt and potatoes. He agreed to let her join under one firm condition: she not get all worked up over the case.

So what did she do? Jumped head first into their conversation and devoured all of the facts with fervor.

When they stood to leave, after she practically solved the case for them, Brennan stopped as she rose from her chair. Sweets, too, paused from across the table and Booth grabbed onto her elbow. "Dr. Brennan? Is everything alright?"

"Bones?" Booth echoed.

She broke out of her trance and smiled at the two men, claiming she had been startled by the force of the baby's kick. Without any large production over her strange action, everybody went back to gathering their things. Booth, ever the gentleman, helped her into her coat and lead her out of the diner with his hand on her back.

Sweets hopped into the back seat of the SUV as Booth helped Brennan up into her own seat. She hated that she was so obtuse that she could no longer enter a car without help. This time when she paused it was obvious something big was happening.

"Bones?"

Once she was settled, she factually stated, "My water broke."

Sweets poked his head between the two seats and looked at the partners with wide eyes. Panic was evident in his voice as he asked, "The baby's coming?"

She didn't have time to say anything before the two men began babbling and fussing about. Booth leaned over to unnecessarily triple check her seatbelt. In the backseat, Sweets had started telling Brennan to breathe even though she was perfectly calm. Booth reached his side of the truck within seconds and quickly pulled out of their spot, only to find himself stuck in traffic.

Contractions came and went, but the magnitude hadn't increased much from the ones she'd been having intermittently all day.

Booth was the incessant question asker, barely taking a breath before he asked her, again, if she was alright.

At one point, Brennan stated, "Anthropologically speaking, it is quite common for women to give birth without the assistance of any medical professionals. Actually, in today's society, it is not uncommon for women to give birth in their homes or even in the back of cars."

Booth looked over at her and glared. "You are _not_ giving birth in a car."

From the back seat Sweets could be heard panting. His face was scrunched up, and had it been any other situation, Booth would've made fun of him for it. Suddenly he breathed, "Oh my gosh, we're having a baby! A baby!"

Booth shot him a look in the rear view mirror before asking her, "Are you _sure_ you're alright?"

Sick of swerving from lane to lane in hopes of arriving to the hospital quicker, and not convinced of her answers, he reached for the siren. Brennan, however, swatted his hand away.

Sweets interrupted whatever they were about to say. "The siren! You need to turn on the siren!"

Brennan let out a feral growl, a contraction finally hitting her hard enough to overpower her rationality and compartmentalizing skills.

"Oh God, oh God," Sweets wheezed, fanning himself with his hands. He looked white and green all at the same time.

Looking back at Sweets, who was on the verge of passing out and throwing up, and then over at Brennan, who was sweaty and riding out the rest of the contraction, Booth made his decision.

With the simple flick of a switch, his lights were flashing and the siren wailed. Problem solved… until they arrived at the hospital and the two argued about him misusing his badge to illegally park.


	4. Reader

_**Author's Note:** This is one of those chapters that was written because it had to be. Meaning, I have a list of senses I have to go off of, so I wrote this one. But I'm very excited for next week's senses!_

**_Setting: _**_Same setting as the past chapter, so 8-9 months after the S6 finale._

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Reader<br>**_Sense of audience—aim at a specific group/audience—not a memo or a letter, but an opinion or editorial piece would work._

* * *

><p>… And B for baby makes three!<p>

On Thursday, Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian and Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI welcomed their first child together to the world. There is no say of the baby's sex, but the little bundle of joy is reported to be in perfect health.

Dr. Temperance Brennan not only helps solve murders, but she writes them as well. All of her novels have hit the top of the New York Times' Best Seller list. In an earlier interview, Dr. Brennan adamantly stated she never wanted children. What changed her mind? Or, should we ask, _who_ changed her mind?

Agent Booth, a former army sniper, already has a son, but sources say he is overjoyed to be a father again. He, with the help of his partner, Dr. Brennan, has one of the highest solve rates in the bureau.

A nurse from the maternity ward related that both Mom and Dad seemed very emotional and blessed. The same nurse also said she spotted Agent Booth with his arms around the mother of his child as she soothed the baby to sleep.

Together, these two have cracked the hardest and some of the most famous cases. If the Gravedigger and what the FBI called Gormogon couldn't stop the duo, parenthood should be a piece of cake.


	5. Detachment

_**Author's Note/Warning:** There's actually a continuation of this chapter coming at my next update. This one's... heartless. It's not the darkest thing I've written, although the material is a bit cruel, but I've learned I have an oddly optimistic view of angst, so don't take my word for anything here._

**_Setting:_**_ Eh. Let's just say not S1. I don't even know if it'd really be good S2. Can I claim it's unimportant as usual? I can? Okay, great. Unimportant. Happens whenever. _

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Detachment<br>**_The writer or character sees a problem but remains powerless or unwilling to solve._

* * *

><p>It was dark. Until her eyes adjusted to the crippling lack of light, she was able to discern very little. As she tried to sit up from her horizontal position, she immediately felt heavy. Something held her arms and legs in place.<p>

As her eyes grew attuned to the dark, she tried to move her head to look around, but with the subtlest of movements, her vision went blurry. She assumed her nausea and discomfort were a side effect of the serious pain making her head throb and, quite possibly, from being struck or drugged.

She felt disoriented but miraculously was able to keep from panicking. She focused on breathing and relaxing her body. Then, a muted cry caught her attention.

Everything came flooding back to her—the case, the threat, the child, everything. She still couldn't quite see where the source of the tears lay, but she spoke, hoping she would be heard. "It's going to be alright," she tried, lying for the sake of the young, terrified girl, the orphan of their latest victim.

She didn't know enough for the statement to be true. She had immense faith Booth would find her, find them, but she could not know what would happen in the time between.

Through the subdued and mostly unintelligible sobs, Brennan heard the girl whimper a call for her deceased mother. Before she composed a reply, a man burst into the room. The light from the outside burned her eyes but she continued staring in hopes of seeing any important landmarks. Her abdomen was sore from trying to sit up, but she pushed through the inconsequential discomfort. The girl's yelps of fear motivated her to do whatever she could.

Without any warning, the man raised his gun and shot the girl in the head. The sound of the shot overpowered Brennan's cries of mercy. There was nothing she could do. She hadn't even been able to yell until after the bullet spiraled out of the barrel. She flinched at the sound as he fired another round into the girl's chest for good measure.

From the light of the ajar door, Brennan was able to see the innocent blond curls saturated with blood. It made her stomach churn and angered her, but she fought to remain calm.

The man with the pistol waved it in her face next, forcing her attention to him. "We had no more use for her," he spat, his English heavily masked with a strong foreign accent. "But you," he added, running the gun along her cheek. "You we have reason to keep around."

She steeled herself to head butt him, but he noticed the grimace of her jaw and acted first. With a swift blow, his gun made contact with her forehead, knocking her out of consciousness once more.


	6. Involvement

_**Author's Note:** Here's the continuation for Sense of Detachment. It's... Well, what it is is up for your interpretation. Someone told me I need a "Hankie Alert" before basically every chapter I write so here it is: **Hankie Alert**. Also, be on the lookout. I have a LOT in store for everyone next week, including Monday..._

**_Setting:_**_ Like the first part of this, irrelevant. If you want this to stand alone, which it sort of could, it's still irrelevant._

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Involvement<br>**_Create a situation where the writer or character gets caught up emotionally in someone else's predicament and comes to the aid._

* * *

><p>When she finally came back to consciousness, multiple people were hovered around her. At first, this scared her. She felt like one of the skeletons on her examination table as she vaguely heard fragments of their conversation about head wounds and her condition. Then her rationality kicked in and she knew that if she were dead, she wouldn't be seeing or hearing these people.<p>

Finally, a familiar and comforting face made its way into her fuzzy sphere of vision. He looked worried, not relieved, that he was looking at her. She couldn't figure out why he was so focused on her until she felt them.

Uncontrollable tears were streaming down her cheeks. A look of recognition passed over her features and instantaneously he wrapped her in his arms, medics be damned. She wasn't as worried about her physical condition as he was about her emotional one.

He was there and she once more felt safe. Seeing him again gave her a glint of happiness. Being in his arms was comforting.

Eventually he pulled back and brushed the hair from where it stuck to her wet cheeks. Gently, he insisted she be taken care of by the EMTs on standby and, without any form of resistance, she complied.

He watched her the whole time, as did she. With strict instructions most of which Brennan already knew, Booth agreed to take her home.

Without uttering a single word, they sat on the her sofa. She tucked her feet underneath her and he set the sham over her legs. For countless minutes they sat there. He was waiting for her to speak, and she was waiting for her mind to process it all. Then, just like when he first came to her rescue, she was in his arms at the same moment her wall broke down. Before a single tear could reach her cheek, he was there wiping her teary eyes and rubbing her back.

The young girl's murderer was so despairingly cold-blooded and for whatever reason this case got to her more than others.

"I—couldn't do—anything," he heard her hiccup in-between soft, tear-laden breaths.

Booth furrowed his face into her hair. "Shh," he answered. "I know, I know."

She was helpless and unable to do anything about her situation. But, luckily for him, he could, so he wrapped her tighter in his arms and held her as her tears begun to subside. He acted as her rock, gave her stability that she needed in the moment. He tried to answer all of her questions, whether rhetorical or posed to God, and whispered reassuring nothings into her hair. What she felt, the despair and desire to change the outcome, he felt too. He would do whatever he could to fix it, short of bringing the dead back to life. Because, as long as she cried, his heart ached for hers.


	7. Imagination

_**Author's Note:** Happy Halloween AND Bones week everyone! This one's special for Halloween AND because I'm going to be posting 5 times this week! Yes, **5** times. Be on the lookout for other stories I have...hint hint. _

**_Setting:_**_ Irrelevant. _

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Imagination<br>**_Allow yourself to become something else—see an object through different eyes._

* * *

><p><em>On October 30<em>_th__, a young scientist went to bed. That night there was a loud storm with lightening and thunder. In the middle of the night, a beam of lightening struck her house and caused all of the electric wiring to experience an overcirculation of electrical charge. _

_In her sleep, many weird scientific reactions occurred her in house, but what couldn't be scientifically explained was what actually happened to __her__. _

_When she finally drifted awake, she felt especially light. An untrained observer might say they felt as if half of their body weight was suddenly gone, but because she was a specialist in osteology, and because she fit the standards of a typical anatomical profile, she knew it was closer to 80% of her body mass missing. _

_This was a strange phenomenon and, ever the curious scientist, she got up to head to the bathroom and make observations. Her movements seemed a tad rigid and restricted, and her cuboids and calcaneus seemed to be experiencing a lot of force on them. _

_When she has herself in the mirror, two thoughts popped into her mind: there was no way that she could be alive made solely of bones, and she shouldn't be able to see herself as she had no brain or eyes in her orbitals. _

_She raised her hand and watched as her distal phalanges rubbed along her zygomatic arch. She turned side to side to examine her sagittal sutures and observe her temporomandibular joints. Next she looked at her manubrium and—_

"Bones? This isn't a very scary story," Parker interrupted.

Normally, Booth would chide his son for interrupting, but he couldn't help but agree. Her story was not only not scary, but it was also way too educational and rather boring. From the looks on the other kids' faces, he knew they shared his sentiments.

Brennan furrowed her eyebrows in confusion and looked at the group of Parker's friends. There was some sort of white plastic soldier, a child with bright orange hair and an impossibly large nose, and some sort of wizard with an unnatural scar tattooed on his face. "My story was no different that any Halloween tales. Just like there is no such things as magic and wizardry, a person cannot live without vital organs and epithelium."

One of the boys dressed as a vampire whined, "But it wasn't scary enough!"

This, for whatever reasons no one but her would understand, excited her. With a smile she tried again. Noticing this, the boys, including Booth, groaned. "There once was a bacterium…"


	8. Language

_**Author's Note:** Have I told you lately that I seem to prefer the abstract versions of the senses? At least, much different than the examples and what I previously have written? Well, I do. But hey, I actually like this abstract. Much more creative, much easier, and much more fun than the real Language would've been! ALSO, sorry I didn't post yesterday. I got so excited about starting a new series that I jumped the gun and posted that yesterday instead of today, which meant this came today instead of yesterday. My bad. _

_**Setting:** This one takes place at during S1 around when Booth is getting to know the Squints. It's not related to any particular episode._

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Language<br>**_Dialogue and your writer's ear—create a convincing, appropriate language for the character—unique and different from common everyday language._

* * *

><p><strong><em>"<em>**_'__What are words-but words? The glance of her heavenly eyes say more than any tongue.'**"  
><strong>- Nathanael to Lothair by E.T.A. Hoffman_

* * *

><p>Each individual has his or her own language. Every person with their varying jobs and roles have a different jargon. To some, listening to these people talk is like having someone talk to them in solely a foreign language. Every now and then those people can pick out a word or two, but the bulk of what is being related is gibberish. This is how Special Agent Booth feels most of the time when the squints at the Jeffersonian speak. He swears it's like listening to the teacher in Charlie Brown go on and on and on… and on.<p>

Angela talks electronically. Half of the time all he understands is "Angelator." For whatever reasons she cannot even say, "The computer is trying to fix the video." Instead she states, all professionally, how the blah blah is rendering the blah blah. He knows she's the most normal of the bunch, but even she has her fancy computer lingo.

Hodgins is the one who refuses to call a fly a fly, a rock a rock, or dirt simply dirt. He constantly corrects everyone with his twenty-dollar words instead of making life easier for everyone else. That and he is always preaching how cement and concrete are not synonymous, or blabbering about the bugs he's observing for fun. For fun.

Zack is quite possibly the work of the bunch. For that very reason Booth decided to spin the young genius a tale about male bonding and not speaking to each other. This way they rarely directly interact. He spews big words and acts as if its common knowledge that the super-spine fossil is better than the spine of the scalpel. (What the young graduate student really says is that the supraspinous fossa is superior to the spine of the scapula, but clearly the vernacular is above his pay grade).

Then there's Brennan. Bones has this amazing mixture of bones and anthropology that slams into him like a dump truck. She hasn't quite learned to give him the dummies version of reports but he has faith that eventually, hopefully sooner than later, she will. The anthropology facts, however, he has no hope for. She randomly talks about other cultures and tribes like the "mama-poo-poo" and "he-really-could-not-care-less" tribes. He's learning to block out her scientific babble—what's the point of listening if he isn't going to understand and it's just going to make him feel elementary?

Somehow it's when she doesn't use words to communicate that he understands her the most. Their eyes meet sometimes and they speak a silent language, solely their own. He sees what she's thinking and wonders the same. It works, though neither of them can, nor wants to, explain how. For Booth, that is his favorite language that she speaks.


	9. Sight

_**Author's Note: **I took a much different approach on this one than... A. I planned on taking. B. Is expected. It's stylistically different, and a grammatical mess when you put it in Word, but I kinda like it! This may or may not be a result of me having to learn every bone in the body and multiple fossas, foramen, etc. Yeah, now I understand everything they say on the show! It's much more entertaining and fun that way. WHAT NOW? I HAVE watched the episode (just finished it two minutes ago), so it will no longer offend me if you bring it up in reviews._

**_Setting:_**_ None. I can't pinpoint one and it's (almost) 100% irrelevant. _

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Sight<br>**_A word—a picture of a primarily visual experience—helps the reader "see what the writer (or narrator) sees."_

* * *

><p>Two hundred and six bones. Multiple fossas, processes, foramen, and sutures. Twenty four ribs and twenty six discs of a somewhat damaged vertebral column. One complete skull, two clavicles, two scapulae, and one sternum. Various carpal bones, two humeri, two ulnas, two radiuses. Ten distal, middle, and proximal phalanges. One pelvic girdle with its coccyx, sacrum, ischia, ilia, and pubic symphysis. Two well-nourished femurs, two tibias and two fibulas. Two calcaneus bones, various tarsal bones, and ten more distal, middle, and proximal phalanges.<p>

Developed pectoralis majors, well defined biceps brachii, firm rectus abdominis muscles, and fair set of glutei maximi.

Creamy white skin sprinkled with freckles. Thin, pink lips with the light brush of stubble surrounding them. Warm brown eyes that draw her in, and soft brown hair. Firm yet gentle hands, bigger than hers.

Shades of greens, blues, reds, and yellows tucked into his plain, black shoes. Perfectly tailored, crisp suits, sometimes black, sometimes gray, and even occasionally navy blue. Jackets lined with bright colored silk, or plain green and black military, or leather, jackets. Flashy ties of all different colors, patterns, and images, either tied loosely around his neck or right under his Adams apple.

A veneration of procedure and the people in charge, yet a natural rebellion. A high regard of his nation. Morals, a deep-rooted care for family, and an important cosmic balance sheet. A good man, despite his transgressions and faults. A firm belief in love and fate. Faith in God and the plan he has.

An exemplary agent and cop. A protective brother. A father. A best friend.

She sees him as all of these things, in all of these ways, but first and foremost she sees him as the man who loves her. Before the bones, muscles, physical attributes, spunky socks, personality quirks, and titles, he is the man she loves. Nothing else matters.


	10. Taste

_**Author's Note: **When I took that writing class, I wrote something similar to this for Taste (and for Touch). When I read one of them out loud, as I was required to do, everybody was basically grossed out. But hey! I'm just following directions! PS: GO PACK GO!_

**_Setting:_**_ Up to the imagination. It could be after the 100th episode ("The Parts in the Sum of the Whole"), oafter Booth breaks up with Hannah in "The Daredevil in the Mold" (S6) if you really want, or some other time when Booth is mad because "something" happened._

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Taste<br>**_No use of the verb "taste" or "flavor"—let the reader taste the feeling—create a taste the reader can relate to._

* * *

><p>As the liquids flew out of his mouth, his throat burned. The remaining liquid trickled back down his throat, tickling but gagging him at the same time. The mixture of bile and cheap liquor offended the buds of his tongue.<p>

Said tongue surveyed his mouth, picking up on its dry state despite the remaining scotch in the crevices. To help alleviate his overall discomfort, he drank a hearty amount of water from the palms of his hands, enjoying the soothing texture as it flowed down his throat. For a short moment, the burning was muted.

The acid and alcohol mixed together to create hell in his mouth. After wiping his wet hands along his face, he searched his cabinet for mouthwash and toothpaste. He squeezed a healthy amount onto the bristles of the brush. The spice of cinnamon flirted with his taste buds, trying to un-offend them.

His attempt failed as, in frustration, he brushed with such vigor that he rubbed his gums raw. Now, cinnamon, lingering with traces of cheap liquor, vomit, and iron-laced blood swirled from cheek to cheek. The fluids mixed together to create something despicable, leading him to spit.

After once more washing his mouth out with stale tap water, Booth stomped to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice in the hopes that the sweet tanginess would alleviate his pain once and for all. The citrus killed everything unwelcome, leaving him relieved.

He gulped down another glass, the sugar dancing on his tongue like a child prancing in the snow. Finally, the nasty concoction of his failed night was washed away, but the reminder of her rejection and his broken heart did not. Instead, the mere memory of her lips on his made him sick all over again, leaving yet another bitter sensation in his mouth.


	11. Hearing

_**Author's Note: **Raise your hand if Daisy annoys you. Raise your hand if you've ever had such a bad headache that any sound or form of light kills you. Raise your hand if you'd shoot Daisy if you had that headache and she started talking. Some people like her. Sorry, but I am not one of those people. Especially when she starts showing up on other shows I love. Not cool. _

**_Setting:_**_ I'm sensing a pattern... Doesn't matter when this happens, as long as it's sometime after Daisy entered the picture. _

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Hearing<br>**_No use of the verb "hear"— create an atmosphere led primarily by sound._

* * *

><p>All day her ears have been ringing with the sound of someone calling her name and asking for her assistance. The first thing anyone had said to her in the morning was "Bones, we've got a case," when Booth called and woke her up.<p>

The second she stepped into the lab, Daisy's shrill tone called her name from the platform. Brennan chose to ignore her and continued to walk to her office, but the pattering of the cheery intern's steps quickly echoed through the hallways and caught up with her.

Daisy's high-pitched complaints gave Brennan an actual ringing sensation in her ears, and a headache. After her long-winded rant with accompanying squeals of "oh my gosh" and "ugh," the exasperating intern took a short, raspy breath before diving into her preliminary results.

The two women swiftly walked back to the platform, the hurried clack of Brennan's heels accompanied by the dull thud of Daisy's steps alerting Cam to their arrival. Dr. Saroyan leaned out of the door to her office and yelled over the regular bustle of the Jeffersonian for the forensic anthropologist to join her.

Brennan snapped a pair of latex gloves around her wrist and wrestled with the other one, the crinkling of the usually pliable material proof of her frustration. Cam lifted the body of the second murder victim slightly off the metal exam table, odd fluid dripping from the squishy body onto the table below it. Curious, Brennan probed the flesh and the sound of wet layers of skin smacking together made both women grimace.

A loud collision interrupted them. Glass instruments—specimen trays, beakers, and test tubes—crashed onto the concrete floor and clinked against each other on their shelves. Metal tables hitting each other echoed through the lab like a reverberating clap of thunder, the sure sign of trouble.

An unconvincing and strained, "I'm okay," made its way to their ears before Cam yelled, "Hodgins," in a way that Brennan knew meant misfortune.

While the lab was temporarily out of commission, Brennan hoped to retreat to a quiet diner. Instead, she was greeted by the lunchtime rush. The rustle of the waitress' aprons, cooks calling out orders, chairs scratching along the old linoleum, and metal utensils meeting ceramic plates, bowls, and cups were all enhanced by her currently sensitive migraine-ridden head.

By the time she made it back, things had quieted down. Then another one of Daisy's jarring greetings came from the platform. After the beep signified she could walk up the stairs, Brennan looked at what Daisy had found, blocking out her attempts to be praised.

With something to report back to Booth, and an excuse to leave Daisy and return to the quiet of her office, she called her partner. After five standard rings, he answered with a booming, "Whatchya got for me, Bones?"

The wail of sirens, soon accompanied by a shuffle of blinds, came from his end of the call. When he returned back to his desk and sat down, the ancient leather wheezed from exertion.

This time, on her end of the call, Hodgins called her name before bursting into her office and explaining scientific babble in a rushed manner. Booth signed off with a promise to call her when he found someone who owned what Hodgins had, in detail, explained.

Finally alone, Brennan shut her door and blinds. For a few hours she worked on paperwork and did some research and planning for her next book. The tapping of the keys was soothing. The lab finally quieted down after a stampede of footsteps around 6:00 pm. Around 8:00 pm, the last set of stilettoes, presumably Cam's, walked past her office, paused, and then resumed walking.

With the lab to herself, Brennan chose to further examine the bones of their victim. Other than the occasional security guard patrolling the area, she was the only one making any noise. The familiar clatter of bones was calming after her busy day.

She went back to her desk and begun typing her report. An eerie silence fell in the building and it felt like the click of the keys echoed everywhere. Later, she didn't know how, but she ended up asleep at her desk with her arm tucked under her head.

The slap of files hitting her desk startled her, pulling her from her fitful and uncomfortable sleep. She mumbled incoherently before looking up. Realizing it was Booth, in far too chipper of a mood, she glared.

Much like yesterday, the first thing anyone said to her was her name, followed with something case related. He chuckled at her disorientation. She silently groaned, shot him another piercing glare, and started all over again.


	12. People

_**Setting: **The beginning of Season 3? I hope it follows canon. _

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of People<br>**_This is characterization—show the person both physically and personally._

* * *

><p>He had heard all about them. People had sung their praises, saying they are the partners with the highest rate of closed cases in the Bureau's history. People talked all about how the man has this amazing instinct and is a fantastic shot. All of what most people had to say about her was personality-related, so he tried to refrain from absorbing their opinions so he could form his own.<p>

What he heard about most, though, hands down, was their "partnership beyond the partnership." Some people were convinced they were sleeping together. Others, many, many others, laid bets on when they would wind up in bed together. That was the real reason he had been brought in—to evaluate their "partnership beyond the partnership," as most agents termed it.

Under the guise of partners counseling, he set up an appointment with the two. When they walked into the office, the tall, muscular agent had immediately begun chuckling, cut off by a glare from the equally as tall, slender, and beautiful scientist. It was these first few moments he studied the most after their session.

The young psychologist, somewhat intimidated, watched the imposing agent's muscles contract as he pulled his arms out of his coat. He caught his gaze and quickly switched focus to the scientist. Her bone structure made her appear cold, and the therapist could easily see the reasoning behind people's statements.

The man rolled his eyes at her silent scolding before motioning for her to sit. Once she was seated, he carelessly plopped into his own seat. He sat with his ankle resting on his knee, exuding a cocky, uninterested attitude. She sat with her knees politely crossed, her posture perfect.

In the silence as the psychologist studied the partners' behavior, the agent tapped his fingers on the armrest while the scientist's hands were impeccably still in her lap.

When he made them participate in trust exercises, he closely noted how comfortable they seemed to be around each other, especially physically. They did not automatically get as close as they could, but they also did not try and stand as far as they could from each other to trick the green therapist into believing nothing between them was happening.

After their session, he studied their file and took careful notes. He examined what their previous psychologist had to say and news articles on the duo. He looked over various case reports they had written to help understand their thoughts. He even picked up a copy of the scientist's first book in hopes of understanding more about the seemingly taciturn and hyper-rational woman.

With a few more sessions and all of his independent research, a few things were clear: Special Agent Seeley Booth was a gambler, took risks and chances. He believed in things without concrete proof if that was what he thought was right. He didn't like having to go to therapy, but would never go against orders, at least not with satisfactory reason.

Dr. Temperance Brennan was exactly what everyone had chalked her up to be, but only on the outside, as a front. Past her exterior of ice was a passionate and caring woman who was lost as a child and a little lost as an adult because of it. She does care what people think of her and wants to do what is right, contrary to what the said people believe.

He watched their interactions and saw nothing seriously compromising between the two. They were, indeed, extraordinarily close, but there was no established relationship or fraternizing between them. When asked by his bosses if they needed to be split up for breaking protocol, Dr. Lance Sweets answered that they did not, knowing full well that if anything between the two _did_ happen, the damn would break.


	13. Age

_**Author's Note:**__ I seem to be favoring the abstract, outskirt definitions of the senses, but I really didn't want to write in the POV of a four year old. Sorry I veered from the schedule. I was gone all day and by the time I got home my throbbing head couldn't be bothered to do anything but sleep. _

_**Setting:** Doesn't matter when. It could be a few years after the S6 finale, or non-cannon._

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Age<br>**_Create a character of a particular age and make that character convincing in thought, speech, and action._

* * *

><p>At first the sounds that woke her up were quiet, mostly muted by the doors and walls that separated her from the commotion. But, as the time passed and the conversation progressed, the voices grew louder and louder, filled with more and more emotion.<p>

She tried to fall back asleep. She tucked her hands under her round cheeks and turned over in bed, placing her back to the cracked-open door.

No matter who told her the dark was nothing to fear, no matter how many times her daddy checked under the bed and in the closets, the looming darkness frightened the young girl. Somehow, in the magic of the night, every noise, movement, or shadow transformed into something foreign, something scary.

So, when she heard the voices, her first instinct had been to hide under her covers. Once they grew loud enough for her to recognize the tones as those of her parents, she felt slightly less afraid. But, then she heard her mama yell, "No," and she shuddered in fear, thoughts of monsters attacking her parents coming to mind.

Sliding off her bed, she wrapped her favorite blanket around her shoulders and tucked her baby doll, anatomically correct no doubt, under her arm. As her little feet wadded along the hallway, the voices grew louder and louder.

There was a startling sound of something hitting the floor and she jumped, ready to run back to her room and hide.

Even at such a young age she was able to sense how her mama was feeling, exactly how like a baby cries when its mother is distressed. The tone of both her parents' heated words frightened her. Her little mind reasoned that something bad must have happened for them to be so loud and so mad.

Quietly, she peeked into their bedroom. Her gaze continuously shifted from parent to parent, the young girl stunned into silence and confusion. Hearing them argue, something they never did when she was awake during daytime, upset her.

A horrible feeling filled her tummy. She was too young to realize the feeling was guilt, too young to understand that she felt guilty and responsible for an argument she didn't even cause. This adult, overwhelming emotion did exactly that—the four year old felt so sick of a guilt she didn't even understand, that she burst into tears.

Both parents immediately heard the cry, a sound they were so attuned to. After overcoming the short shock, their expressions of surprise turned into those of concern. Their daughter covered her ears and cried, "Stop yelling!"

The doll and blanket fell to the floor. The girl's face flushed as the warm tears flowed down her innocent, freckled cheeks.

Booth picked her up and brought her to the bed. Brennan followed with the girl's blanket and doll. Both of them sat and soothed the child until her tears turned into soft hiccups and sniffles. Her red nose ran with snot and she wiped it on the sleeve of her pajamas.

"What's wrong," Brennan asked in a maternal tone she had adopted over time.

With her small swollen eyes, she looked up at her parents and the tears began falling once more. "You—scared—me," she choked out between hiccups. Her daddy, brave and strong, asked her how they scared her and she replied that she thought they were being attacked by monsters. "And it—and it—was—because of—of me."

Booth brought his daughter closer to his chest and rubbed her back. Her reasoning didn't make logical sense, but somehow he understood. "I'm so sorry, baby girl." After a few moments of silence, except for the sound of their daughter's soft whimpers, Booth spoke again. "Mommy and I are sorry you thought we were being attacked by monsters and fighting. It's only because we love each other very much."

Brennan nodded her head and lowered her gaze to her daughter's level. With her arms slightly outstretched, she asked, "Do you want to spend the rest of the night in our bed with us?" Her daughter sniffled and shyly nodded yes. "Alright, come here." She embraced her daughter and stood from the bed. The girl wrapped her arms and legs around Brennan as Booth fixed the bed for them to get into, making sure to leave a spot for the doll and blanket.

Once tucked under all of the appropriate covers, her parents lowered their tired bodies down next to her smaller one on each side.

Holding her mother's hand and wrapping her short arm around her dad as much as she could, the girl fell asleep. Her breathing occasionally hitched from crying and her lips were smashed into a pout on the pillow. They both admired how beautiful the life they created was and silently vowed to never scare her by arguing again.


	14. Place Setting

**_Setting: _**_Telling you would totally ruin the chapter. If you really can't figure it out, review and I'll tell you. But, you know, you can always review if you do know, too. ;)_

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of PlaceSetting  
><strong>_Create an indoor or outdoor setting rich in detail._

* * *

><p>Silver. A room covered in reflective surfaces that look high-tech, clean, and modern all at once. If it isn't silver, it's glass or holds a ridiculous amount of shine.<p>

In the atrium of the room is a large, rectangular, and, of course, silver platform surrounded on all sides by a few bars to keep people or expensive equipment from falling off. The floor of the platform is heavily textured, giving it an almost grated appearance, so that any bodily fluids do not create a dangerously slippery surface and lawsuit.

Four beams on each corner of the platform rise up. Each individual beam is made of four posts in the shape of a square. Between these run short support beams attached vertically at angles. The four main support beams help hold up the lights to illuminate the room at night. Otherwise, during the day, the giant v-shaped sunroof illuminates the building.

Behind the main few steps for the platform, and to the right, is an older-looking wooden staircase, an odd addition to the room. These polished steps lead to the upper, suspended bridge that goes along the perimeter of the building. Along this pathway is a private lounge with an orange couch, green pillows, a table, and some chairs. It is the perfect spot to see the happenings below.

To the right of that staircase is her office. Unlike the rest of the property, her space is colored in a warm orange. Against the wall of windows sits her worn couch. Chairs separated by a long coffee table sit opposite the couch. To the left of the sitting area is her desk, covered with papers.

Standing on the upper level on the building, they leaned their forearms and elbows on the railing and observed the scene below. The colorful lights bounced off the slick, shiny surfaces. People crowded together on the platform, their bodies brushing to a felt beat. A sign hanging above the platform flashed blue and yellow.

The Lab, their home away from home.


	15. Smell

**_Author's_**_** Note:** This was EASILY the hardest sense to write the first time around. Can't say it was any easier the second. I mean, come on. Smell? With those restrictions? I can't describe smells for the life of me, or figure out what they are, but I wasn't going to not include this sense. So, you know, I went my own route. Oh well. Enjoy._

_**Setting: **Almost everything is prior to the show. If it isn't, it's totally irrelevant.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Smell<br>**_No use of the verb "smell" or "odor" or "scent." (Note that it didn't say "aroma!")_

* * *

><p>The instant the door was broken down his nose burned. The air that flew through his nostrils was repugnant and revolting. Somehow, it was an aroma that would forever be engrained in his mind: rotting flesh.<p>

Even at that young age he understood the importance. He was young and green, but he was still a man, an alpha male, which helped him keep from letting his stomach betray him. Some other green soldiers couldn't control their guts and the warm liquid easily flew from their lips. Mixed with the sharp, acidity of vomit and various dead bodies, the collective waft of air rolled over his body like un-sensed waves.

Guns drawn, as a precaution, the men furthered into the small hut. Incense was burning, a tangy spice trying to erase, or at least overpower, the bodily fluids and decomposing skin and organs that overwhelmed the men's senses. All of these clung to his fatigues and soaked into his skin. Dry, bloody dirt worked itself into the grooves of his boots and, as they walked around, was kicked up into the air. The dust and dirt tickled his nose. Urine and the God-awful decomposition saturated his fingers when he checked the most recently deceased corpses pulse. His jacket and pants had a duel fragrance. The initial whiff gave him the tangy, smoky incense, but within seconds that was erased with flesh.

It was these that haunted him that night. It was the first time he had to deal with the dead so close. It haunted him, so much to the point that years later, working for the Bureau, whenever he walks into a crime scene there is a twinge in his gut and a burn in his nose. The memory, mixed with the present stench, is so distinguishable and heavy that it nearly overwhelms him. It's never something he gets used to, and to a point, he's thankful for that very fact.

* * *

><p>Her first foster home was a group home. She wasn't supposed to be there long; the arrangement was to be temporary, but was drawn out. School yielded no connections and "home" was just as fruitless, but somewhere between the two, a young Brennan found company. Walking back from school one day, an elderly woman on her porch caught her attention and called her up.<p>

At first, Brennan was hesitant. Their first meeting she said nearly nothing but her name. For some reason when the woman said it was a lovely name, she believed her.

After calling out to her for the next few days as Brennan walked home, she became accustomed to spending time with the woman. Finally she had a friend, a companion to converse and fight loneliness with.

She only ever entered the house if invited to. If Lucia, the elderly woman, didn't come outside and sit on her porch, Brennan did not walk up the worn, wooden steps to the house. It had been four days since she had been invited in. Uncharacteristically, Brennan followed the path to the steps. She took a deep breath of the lavender chemicals floating in the air. She felt comforted and safe, the aroma reminding her of her mother and the person inside who seems to care about her.

The comfort soon waned with the fear of abandonment and the wave of death that steamrolled into her as she opened the door. It was awful—a mix of something she didn't recognize, rotted milk, and bodily fluids. She called out Lucia's name, but nobody replied.

With every step the stench seeped deeper and deeper into her pores. As she walked closer to the source, it became harder and harder to breathe. She covered her mouth with her shirt only for the trace of the dead woman to be covered by dirt and sweat.

Seeing the woman she had come to find hope with upset the young teen. Merely a fledgling, lost in this new life, the memory was bound to haunt her. But more than the memory of feeling the cold skin under her fingers, or sighting the warped flesh of Lucia's lifeless corpse, it is the aroma that still gets to her.

Sometimes, when her guard is down, she will walk up do a dead body and immediately go back to her adolescence. She's quick to recover, fast to spew all of the "squinty" terms she knows annoys her partner, but the lingering prickle of her nose doesn't fade. She simply hides it well.


	16. Self

_**Author's Note: **I. Hate. First. Person. I feel like I always make the characters seem so immature in their thoughts, so I decided to create a new character. (AKA, myself). Not the typical "Sense of Self," but it doesn't seem like I'm doing the "typical" anything._

_Sorry I haven't been replying to reviews. A. FF . net won't let me do things correctly and B. I am stupid busy. _

_**Setting:** This is honestly applicable to about 95% of the show. (That 5% = D.H. aka During Hannah)_

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Self<br>**_Told in the first person. The reader must see the person/you, either through an interior monologue or situation_

* * *

><p>They were sitting with their heads close together. Their conversation was obviously personal and important. She heard his voice take on a caustic tone and she studied the woman across him for her reaction. His lips were in a solid line, as were hers. Clearly, it was an impasse.<p>

Their gazes remained fixed and suddenly I felt the tension that radiated in their moment. Neither of their expressions changed, but his neck reddened and her cheeks flushed. It was obvious that something else, something under the surface and below the current of electricity, was happening between them.

Maybe they were just stubborn, and it was a simple argument. It was this outcome that I was secretly hoping for. The man sitting at that table has a smile that makes me weak at the knees.

I heard a warm, deep voice behind me say, "Honey, you don't stand a chance." I turned on my stool and erected my back. Trying to be stealth and watch the handsome man at the table behind me was not an easy task. I tried to simply peer over my shoulder, but that quickly brought a pain to my neck. I ended up turning half of the way for an unobstructed and more comfortable view.

I momentarily tore my gaze from the tall man with dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a nice muscular build to look at Rosie, the other waitress on duty. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I saw him smile—a grin with charm, really—as the woman across from him said something and laughed, their disagreement in the past. My heart sunk whereas I wanted it to soar.

I scrunched my nose and quickly spun all the way back around to watch them. In front of her sat a full bowl of cantaloupe and berries but her fingers slid across the table to sneak a fry. Her slender fingers picked one and quickly brought it to her mouth.

Pleased that he did not notice her ploy, her hand moved across the table again to take another. This time, without even looking, he pulled the plate further from her reach. She immediately froze in place. A small, smug smile played on his lips.

Oh, his smile and flirtatious, sparkling eyes.

Rosie interrupted me again, saying, "Those two have been coming here for years now." She leaned in closer as she refilled my coffee. "You're new here, kid, so I'll let you in on a secret. Those two are the only ones for each other."

I cocked my head to the side. "But you told me the other day they weren't dating," I pondered aloud.

"Sure, but that don't mean they're not meant for each other."

I watched him take a bite from the extra large piece of pie I had served him and sighed. An idea sprung to mind. I refused to back down before fully convinced I stood no chance. "I heard her say she hates pie. He _loves_ pie. I do, too."

The older woman shrugged and moved to fill up another customer's coffee at the bar. "Doesn't matter. It gives him a challenge and he likes that."

I twirled the spoon around in my coffee, watching as the white liquid swirled into the dark brown. "From what I've heard of their conversations, she's completely dense. Doesn't get any pop-culture references. I get most of them."

"He likes teaching her," she answered.

"Sometimes she doesn't seem to like him that much. I mean, I would never steal his fries."

Rosie stood in front of me and leaned her elbows on the bar. "That's her way of showing him her feelings. She's comfortable enough with him to take his fries. Sometimes she takes them because she _knows_ it riles the man up. It's a game they play, I suppose."

I rested my chin in my palm and asked, "How do you know so much about them?"

She shrugged, like what she was about to say was nothing special. "They're regulars and I'm a hopeless romantic."

After she left to take another patron's order, I turned and faced the two and pretended to look out the window behind them. Somehow, now, I understood. He intently watched her as she read over a file. His action didn't even faze her, but I could see him wishing she would catch him, that she would look up and see what he sees.

When she did look up from the file, she said something about needing to get back to the lab and rushed off. He took one last bite of his pie and threw some bills on the table.

As he walked past me, smiled, and told me thank you, I saw it in his eyes, in his more-reserved smile. Those looks, those grins, and those intense stares were only for her. I could never take her place and he would never look at any other woman as he does her. They're perfect for each other in that unpredictable, odd way, like so many romance movies. All I could hope was that someday an unpredictable man would come into my life, and that sooner than later that woman would recognize what she had sitting right beside her.


	17. Emotion

**_Author's Note: _**_I can't promise anything, but I have one more chapter planned. It's not written, but I hope to hammer it out and post it sometime (don't know when) next week or possibly the week after. I don't even have time to post this one, but here I am! If I don't end up getting it done, I want to take the time to say thanks to each and every one of you for your support. It's... amazing! I can't ever properly thank you all. Fingers crossed for another chapter!_

**_Setting: _**_"The Critic in the Cabernet" (S4E24) and, technically, what happens between that episode and the next. This one's different. Surprised? _

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Emotion<strong>_  
>Create a single mood or feeling.<em>

* * *

><p>That was the man her best friend loves in that operating room, whether her friend would admit her feelings or not. When Brennan came to the waiting room to initially tell the group what was about to take place, Angela was overcome with worry. Her own face was drawn, concerned, but she tried to keep the emotions at bay. Then she saw her friend's—her sister's—face.<p>

It was obvious that Booth's situation was more upsetting than the compartmentalized woman allowed to show. Angela could see in Brennan's eyes the true struggle, so she embraced her to give her strength.

After Brennan retreated back to her partner, Angela sunk herself back into a chair. There was no case to solve, no proper distraction. Scanning gossip magazines seemed too flippant and uncaring for such a serious time. Therefore she sat, occasionally shifting positions out of frustration and impatience, and stared at multiple people and places in the room.

* * *

><p>That was the man that brought what he had grown to consider his closest friends, and even family, together. He was the one person that has been able to change the impersonal scientist he had been given the opportunity to work with for many years.<p>

Now that her teacher, the man who she has come to rely on for so much, was in trouble, she was obviously upset. Hodgins was betting she was more distraught than she let on.

Every now and then he would walk up to the nurses' station and ask for information. They, of course, would try and refuse him access, but he knew how important to everyone it was to have updates, so he name-dropped. It was unethical on both ends, but once the flustered nurses recovered from the shock, they were rather accommodating.

Having a task calmed the nerves even he wouldn't admit he had and, at the same time, helped assuage those of the others. It was the least he could do.

* * *

><p>That man in the operating room had easily become one of his closest friends. As a colleague and patient, Booth was someone Sweets looked up to. Then there was Brennan, another person whom he had started considering a dear friend.<p>

As both her friend and therapist, it was easy to see the pain in her eyes. Her hyper-rationality and well-perfected compartmentalization facades occasionally frighten him, both personally and professionally. He understood the unspoken words behind her statistics.

He was the worst of the bunch, emotionally.

While Booth was in surgery, he worried about both of them. Booth's condition, and undergoing neurosurgery, was marginally worrisome. For Brennan he feared the intense emotional repercussions beneath her composure. His mind ran rampant with endless outcomes, possibilities, and what he would say.

* * *

><p>That man under the knife was one of her best friends and ex-lovers. Whenever she got sick of dealing with women and their drama, or whenever she needed to hang out with someone normal, he was her guy. Dr. Brennan fit into both categories, although almost exclusively in the second for her lack of drama, but Camille Saroyan still considered her a good friend.<p>

When she saw Brennan and her nervous state, she was afraid that anything that worried the usually calm scientist couldn't be good. Cam took in the facts and tried to find reassurance in them.

When Dr. Brennan turned and walked away her own nerves really set in.

Out of the ordinary, she fidgeted. She tapped her heels on the linoleum, picked at her fingers, and never seemed to get comfortable. Finally, once it got too out of hand, she excused herself and purchased a box of smokes, an old, expunged habit.

* * *

><p>Angela felt as if she had been waiting days. Her eyes hadn't left the clock for more than a few seconds when someone would obstruct her view or Hodgins would come with an update.<p>

When the doors opened, she sensed the familiar presence and tore her bloodshot eyes from the clock.

She stood from her chair and suddenly time stood still. Her stomach dropped at the inability to accurately read her friend's expression. At the end of Brennan's lengthy statement, relief washed over her entire body and she grinned, feeling light instead of weighed down for the first time in an eternity.

* * *

><p>"It won't be long now," the nurse relayed.<p>

That knowledge, which probably should have soothed him, worsened his nerves. Hodgins returned to his seat and started shaking his legs. He twisted his green rubber band and snapped it in shock when he spotted Brennan walk through the doors.

She recited a speech filled with terms he didn't care about, but then it felt like a weight was lifted from his body. He didn't know why he, of all people, had been so worried, but now that he felt like celebrating, now that he knew Booth made it through the surgery, he was glad this leg was over with.

* * *

><p>He had been blaming himself. He should have noticed the signs, should've caught it earlier. He worried that his inability had possibly affected multiple other lives. Like he said, he wasn't the cool, professional psychologist. In that moment he was a very concerned friend.<p>

Sweets had started considering resigning when Dr. Brennan approached the group. Momentarily the thoughts increased in intensity, but within the matter of a few spoken words, they ceased. His mind was silent and free.

* * *

><p>Her fingers itched with the desire to pull out yet another cigarette. She was about to give in when Hodgins returned to his seat and reassured everyone that everything should be wrapped up soon.<p>

The foot dangling and heel tapping continued, her thumbnails occasionally finding their way between her teeth.

Then she saw her coworker. Her anxiety worsened as Dr. Brennan seemed incapable of cutting to the chase. Cam wanted to shake her but then Dr. Brennan gave her positive news and she stopped still. Suddenly, she could breath again.


	18. Rationality v Gut

**_Author's Note:_**_ So, well... Sorry for the wait! It was necessary (I've been pulling serious all-nighters for a week now to get all my papers written) but nonetheless frustrating to be a writer to disappears into the wind. This is the last one, just a short little thing to really tie this series into the show. Because this is the last chapter, I want to take the time to give you all a very large thank you. Really, you guys make everything worth it! And, of course, I'd love to know which was your favorite, if I didn't already ask that. Yes, I am brain dead._

_**Setting: **There is none. Didn't write it with one in mind.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Sense of Rationality vs. Sense of the Gut<strong>

* * *

><p>Evidence. It is what she has always claimed she needs, it is what she is constantly searching for and continuously acquiring. It is something that she does not feel she has enough of in relation to Booth.<p>

It isn't that he hasn't provided any proof, any empirical data. Time after time he has saved her, come to her rescue, and reassured her. He has halted death, has stared danger in the face, and declared triumph. He has protected her from herself, her own mind, and kept her astray from self-deprecation.

He has given her countless reasons for her to trust him, and she does. A lingering doubt only ever materializes whenever she is unsure of herself, not of him.

It is the evidence that has piled up against herself that has held her back. The overwhelming mound has blocked her path, has emotionally stunted her from moving any further forward.

She has no evidence that she can do this, that she can be, and stay, with him. People in her life leave; she leaves. That's what the evidence tells her. Booth's data shows how unlikely it is he would leave, but she's a variable that ruins the positive result. It is the evidence that proves she will mess everything up, and evidence is what she acts on, what she relies on.

But he doesn't need evidence. She makes her conclusions based on proof, and he gathers evidence after forming his conclusions. While she uses her keen sense of rationality, he uses that of his gut.

Over the years, his gut has proved invaluable in spurring investigations, has given him inspiration to prove his gut right with evidence.

About her, he knows. Through countless heartbreaks and learning experiences, Booth has discerned the difference between his mind and his gut, the later synonymous with his heart.

When he sees her, his heart flutters. When he thinks about what they could be, he is overwhelmed with a feeling of confidence and longing. Given two options, when at a crossroad, his gut tells him which way to go, knows what she needs to be comfortable, what she needs to put her small hand in his larger one and go down the path he simply knows is the one.

Someday, once she's finally compiled all her evidence, once he has proven to her her own great potential, _their_ great potential, evidence is how she'll know she loves him. But, for now, his gut, his _heart_, is how he knows that he loves her.


End file.
